


The Supernatural Case

by thepensword



Series: Matt Murdock Saves The World [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I don't really know anything about law so I just sort of made it up, In between Supernatural episodes 8.17 and 8.19, My muse likes to send me weird ideas sometimes, Nelson and Murdock represents the Winchesters, Post season-one Daredevil, The Winchesters get arrested again, bear with me, three-shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brett Mahoney calls from the precinct with a case he labels 'weird', Matt knows that it is going to be an unusual day. And when he finds out that his new clients are, in fact, the Winchester brothers, clearly psychotic but praised by some as heroes of saintly proportions? Well, how can he resist?</p><p>Or: the time Nelson and Murdock took a case more impossible than that of Karen Page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the first in a series my muse decided I would write. It may be a while before the next one, but the general idea is to crossover Daredevil with anything and everything under the sun. Yeah, I know, I'm insane, but my muse is a ruthless dictator and there is nothing I can do. Enjoy!

The phone rings silently, vibrations shivering down the table legs and into the floor, traveling so that Matt can feel them beneath the rubber-and-leather soles of his shoes. He focuses on his surroundings, searching for the flowery smell of Karen’s perfume, the click of her heels and the swish of her dress.

Both are absent. Karen is on lunch break, which makes it safe for him to be himself.

“Foggy,” he calls, his voice soft and yet somehow carrying across the small space of their practice.

There is a thump and a curse and Foggy moves into the doorway, rubbing his head. “Damnit, Matt!” he says. “What?!”

Matt cocks his head. “What were you doing?”

“I was fixing that table leg, which you damn well knew.”

“Me?” Matt feigns innocence, widening his eyes beneath his sunglasses in an expression that he has been told is reminiscent of a guilty puppy. “How could I possibly have known that?”

In fact, he’s heard the table wobbling on uneven feet for weeks now. It’s maddening.

“Quit acting like an invalid!” Foggy moans. “Murdock, you had better have a reason for making me knock my head on the bottom of my desk.” His muscles stretched downwards in what must be a frown. “It hurt.”

Matt chooses to ignore his friend’s theatrics and gestures towards the cell phone on the reception desk. “Your phone’s ringing.”

There is a moment of silence that must be Foggy sending a glare his way, before the familiar footsteps tromp across the room, echoing through the hollow floorboards. The phone is scooped up and Foggy taps the screen, holding it to his ear.

“What do you want?” he growls rudely. Matt chuckles softly and leans against the doorway, arms crossed before him.

“Oh, come on, you _know_ they make her feel better.”

Ah. Brett, then. “Are you seriously still bringing Bess cigars?”

Foggy waves a hand at him— _shut up, Murdock_ —and continues with his conversation. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fine. So what’s up? Uh…yeah?” A long pause, and Foggy’s heartbeat speeds up with what could be excitement, but could also be fear. “Sure. Yeah, lemme just talk to Matt first. Are you sure, though? This sounds kinda like a big deal.”

A big deal? Over the last year Foggy has witnessed murder and bombings, come to terms with Matt’s nighttime identity, and personally helped to take down the Kingpin, Wilson Fisk. It takes a lot, now, for Foggy to classify something as ‘a big deal’.

“Alright, if you’re sure. Okay. Yeah. Seeya.” Foggy hangs up.

“Well?”

“Well.” Foggy turns to him, chewing on the inside of his lip. “How much did you hear?”

Matt shakes his head. “None. I wasn’t listening.”

“How come?”

“Oh, come on, Foggy. You _know_ I wouldn’t invade your privacy that way.”

Foggy makes a sound of quiet disbelief, and Matt isn’t certain if he should be offended or not. He decides that it's best not to prod old wounds. (Apparently Foggy hasn’t ‘come to terms’ quite as well as Matt had thought.)

“Okay, whatever,” says Foggy with a long-suffering sigh. “That was Brett. He says he’s got a weird case for us. Apparently the word’s gotten around that you actually _like_ those.”

“What wrong with weird?”

Foggy rolls his eyes. Then he freezes. “Uh…I just rolled my eyes.”

Now it is Matt’s turn to sigh. “I know, Foggy.” Then he answers the unspoken question with, “I could hear them.”

“Wow, okay, you remember what we were just saying about _weird_? Let’s go with that, and we can add freakin’ _creepy_ to that.”

Matt grabs a piece of scrap paper from the pile on his desk and scrunches it into a ball using one hand. Then he throws it at his partner, smiling slightly at the crinkling sound of impact that means he has hit his target.

“Mature. Very mature.” Foggy scoops up the paper and tosses it into the waste basket. “Anyway, where were we?”

“Something about a weird case, right?”

“Right!” Foggy flips the phone over in his hands, a nervous tick of his. “Well, here’s the deal. This is without a doubt the biggest case we’ve ever been involved again.” He pauses. “Actually…no, it’s bigger than Fisk. We never directly interacted with him.”

“I did.”

Foggy huffs in annoyance. “God, you are such a pain.”

Matt keeps his face completely blank. “The case?” he prompts.

“The case,” agrees Foggy resignedly. “It’s big.”

“Just spit it out already, Foggy!” says Matt. He’s a patient person, but even he has his limits, and his friend is most definitely stalling.

“Okay.” Foggy takes a deep breath, his heart still beating a fast pace inside of his chest. “Do you remember the Winchesters?” 

* * *

_Matt hears the crinkle of fabric-y paper unfolding across the room, smells the unique scent of ink straight off the press. Foggy must be reading a newspaper._

Anything good? _is the question he wants to ask, but he cannot because that would mean revealing his secret, which would lead to questions that he didn’t want to answer and a sense of betrayal that he couldn’t take from his best friend._

_He’s never had a best friend before, and now that he does, he isn't keen on losing him._

_“Hey, Foggy,” he greets instead, fumbling for the bed in the helpless act he is so familiar with. Foggy looks up, lowering the paper and sitting up from his pillows so that he can see his dormmate._

_“Hey, Matt,” he greets. “Newspaper came.”_

_Oh, thank God. “Anything good?”_

_“Eh. Some sports team beat some other sports team, and losing sports team accused winning sports team of cheating. Some kid beat some record. Somebody shot somebody else in a parking lot. Some politician was corrupt. Some corporation was a leech on society. Blah blah, et cetera et cetera. Same old boring—ooh, this looks interesting.”_

_Matt cocks his head, wishing for the millionth time that he could still see to read over Foggy’s shoulder. “What?”_

_Foggy ignores him in favor of reading whatever article has caught his eye. “Foggy?”_

_He hates being helpless, having to wait on others to assist him. Hates being treated like he’s made of glass, hates that, to some extent, it’s true._

_“‘Wanted’,” reads Foggy aloud, holding the newspaper in the air and raising the volume of his voice unnecessarily. After four months of rooming together, Matt’s learned that Franklin Nelson has a flair for the dramatic. “’Dean Winchester, for trespassing, credit card fraud, mail fraud, grave desecrations, arson, impersonation of officers, kidnapping, torture, and three accounts of first-degree murder.’” He pauses briefly, allowing time for this information to sink into Matt’s mind. “’It was a dark night and the city of St. Louis went about it’s business as if nothing was wrong; and for most people, it was any normal night. Not so for the victims of a horrific kidnapping scenario.’”_

_The article is not particularly descriptive, and yet still Matt can smell the blood in the air, feel it on his tongue as a piece of metal between his teeth. He can hear the screams, desperate and terrified and muffled by a greasy gag that is tied far, far too tight. In the very distant reaches of his memory, he can see the vague image of what such a scene would look like._

_He blinks his sightless eyes, breathes the Matt-and-Foggy scented air of the dorm, and the imagined scene is dispelled, leaving Matt to ponder._

_What sort of person would do such a thing?_

_This is what Stick taught him for. This is the horror he’s lived with every day of his life, the war that he’s been apart of since he was hit by that truck at age nine. This is his world. He tried to escape it, but the fact remains that there is no escaping._

_When Stick left, Matt had told himself that he was done. He wasn’t going to do what the old man wanted; he’d blaze his own path, the path that Dad always wanted for him. And he did, but he kept training, too._

_Not since he started college, though. Not since he stepped through those doors into the next chapter of his life. It’s been four months of nothing._

Dad would be proud _, he thinks now, but he knows it’s only partially true, a desperate excuse to hide himself from his destiny. Dad would want him to be happy, sure, to not fight, but he also wouldn’t want Matt to just hide his face from the world and pretend that bad things don’t happen._

_Because they do. Matt knows this better than anyone._

_So he makes his way through the end of a conversation with Foggy, says he’s going for a walk, heads to the nearest boxing arena._

_And then, beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, he brings his anger out into the leathery air, laying it across the bag before him and pounding it into dust with each punch of his fist, kick of his legs, sweep of his lithe body that spins and slices like a scythe._

* * *

 

Winchesters. He remembers the Winchesters. They are a part, however small, of his decision to become Daredevil.

“I remember,” he says, any mirth falling from his face like the corners of his lips as they drop towards the floor. 

* * *

 

_Every television channel broadcasts it. Every radio station blares it. Every newspaper screams it._

_Sam and Dean Winchester are not dead. They’re on a trail of terror through the country, leaving pain and death in their wake._

_They aren’t just killers, though. They are killers who want to be seen._

_Somehow the news station got a hold of a video taken by one of the Winchesters’ victims. Matt sits in Foggy’s apartment, knuckles turning white as he grips his cane, the screams echoing in his ear alongside the heavy beating of Foggy’s heart._

_“Oh my god,” whispers Foggy, horror in his voice like Matt’s never heard. Not from him. Foggy is innocent, naïve. He doesn’t need this._

_Matt stands. He says nothing, simply presses the power button on the TV, only just remembering to fumble for it. “It’s late,” he says without preamble. “I should get home.”_

_“You’re gonna sleep?” chokes Foggy, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “After that?”_

_Matt shrugs. “We’ll see.”_

_He doesn’t sleep, though. He goes to Amazon.com and orders the athletic gear he’d resolved to get two days after he’d taught a lesson to that abusive father._

_Then he pulls out his mask and slides out his window into the night, the Winchesters’ voices ringing in his ears alongside the screams of their victims._

* * *

 

“Well,” says Foggy carefully. “They’re here.”

Matt doesn’t answer, so he hurries to clarify. “At the precinct. They were dumb enough to come into the city, get caught on camera, and now they’re locked up on maximum security.”

“They’ll be convicted,” murmurs Matt. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” (Nothing anyone _should_ do, is the thought lying just beneath the surface of his words.)

“See, though, it’s not as cut and dry as all that,” Foggy argues, moving into Matt’s office and opening the laptop that he’d left there earlier in the day. “There are all these people claiming that the Winchesters are monsters, right? But there’s also this huge number that tell it differently.”

Matt turns his head slightly. “What do you mean by ‘differently’?”

“Put frankly, the Winchesters are made out as angels.”

Matt doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he clears his throat and speaks with false calm. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, here. Brett sent me this file.” Matt listens to the whisper of Foggy’s fingers on the touchpad of the laptop, then the gentle click of the pad depressing to select whatever Foggy is looking for.

There is rustling sound, like a camera being set up. Then a voice, most likely a cop’s, speaks up with the usual. “ _Talk directly into the camera, first stating your name for the record.”_

 _“My name is Dean Winchester.”_ The voice is strong and low-pitched, young but with a bit of gravel. The speaker is sarcastic, cocky, and yet Matt can detect a hint of fear. Normally he would sympathize, but not with Winchester. Not with this monster. _“I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women.”_ There is a pause, as if Winchester is gathering his thoughts before continuing. _“And I did not kill anyone.”_

Matt shifts his weight, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. “Foggy…”

“Shut up and listen, Matt.”

 _“But I know who did. Or rather_ what _did. Of course I can’t be sure, because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory is that we’re looking for some kind of vengeful spirit.”_

Foggy hits the space bar, pausing the recording. He turns, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. “See,” he said. “Weird.”

Matt shakes his head. “So he’s spewing crap. Or he’s deranged. Either way, he and his brother killed people, and there’s no getting around it. _Nelson and Murdock_ represents good people, Foggy. Innocent people. Not serial killers.”

“Yeah, but that’s not all,” says Foggy earnestly. “There’s this public attorney who gathered all this information together when they were assigned to her. The cop from that video? He died around the same time the Winchesters escaped. His partner shot him for attempted murder and resisting arrest, and not only that, she swears up and down that they’re not actually criminals. Says they’re caught up in things that put them in the spotlight for crimes they didn’t commit.”

Matt blinks. “You can’t be serious. Foggy, they’re _criminals_.”

“Hundreds of people, Matt!” exclaims Foggy, throwing his hands up and beginning to pace. “Hundreds of people say that the Winchesters saved them. This isn’t as simple as people think! We don’t even have to except the case, but can we at least go down to the precinct and take a look?” He pauses. “Well, okay, not a ‘look’, exactly, but—you know what I mean!”

Matt exhales slowly, mulling over the information. “Fine,” he says at last, reaching for his cane where it rests by the door. “Let’s go take a look.”

He can practically _see_ the look of triumph on Foggy’s face. And he can definitely hear the ‘ _yes!’_ that is murmured on his friend’s breath as Matt turns away.

He can’t believe he agreed to this. 

* * *

 

“Nelson and Murdock. My favorite sharks.” Brett raises both hands in the air as Matt and Foggy enter the precinct, people forming a path before them. Matt hates having to use the cane, but he does admit it has some advantages. No one wants to risk tripping a blind man.

“Where are they?” asks Foggy, dropping Matt’s arm from where he had been pretending to lead him.

“Locked up in back. I gotta say, I’m kinda surprised you came.”

Matt inclines his head and lets out a soft huff that could pass for laughter. “It wasn’t my idea. Foggy seemed very drawn to the ‘weird’.”

Brett laughs. “Weird. Yeah, this one’s definitely weird. Well, I’ll have them brought into interrogation one at a time.” He paused. “They’re being kept apart, so you’ll have to make do.”

“It’s unusual,” agrees Matt. “But then, so is the case.” He raises his arm for Foggy to take, and his friend does. “Lead the way.” 

* * *

 

_“This is a really bad idea.”_

_“Sam, it’s a case, people are dying, it’s our job. We’re doing it.”_

_“Are you forgetting the fact that we’re wanted by the FBI and New York is the city of security cameras?”_

_Dean rolls his eyes. “We’re dead, remember? The FBI ain’t looking for dead men.”_

_“But if they see us—“_

_“They won’t. We’ll be careful.” His fingers reach out for the volume dial, and the car is filled with the heavy bass thumping of classic metal rock. Sam sighs and turns away, pressing his lips together in frustration. The road zips past them, their surroundings getting more and more urban as they go along._

_This is not going to end well._  

* * *

 

“We’ll find a way out.”

Sam shakes his head, eyes trained on the floor and too-long hair hiding his expression. “Sure, Dean.”

“We will! We always have.”

“You said that last time!” exclaims Sam, looking up at him with desperation in his eyes. “With Henrickson. You said that last time, and then we got attacked by demons. There are only so many ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ cards left in the deck!”

Dean sighs and backs away from the bars, moving to sit on the bed. “Sammy,” he says, just loud enough so that his voice carries across to the opposing cell. “I’m sorry.”

Sam just snorts and looks away. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, it is. You know it is.”

His brother doesn’t answer, because he knows Dean is right.

There’s the heavy sound of a bolt unlatching, and Dean sits up straighter. The expression of reassurance drops away and is replaced by his usual mask of sarcasm and over-confidence, small smirk carefully in place beneath eyes hard as stone. There are very few people who are allowed to see past to his true self, and most of them are dead.

He’s got a reputation to uphold.

“Dean Winchester,” says the cop who steps through the door, closing it behind him. His own expression is hard to read, but Dean thinks he’s nervous. “You’re lawyer is here.”

Sam looks up from his cell, brow furrowing in the familiar expression of confusion. “We don’t have a lawyer.”

The cop shrugs, one corner of his mouth turning upwards. “And these lawyers don’t have any clients.” He leaves it at that, instead moving to unlock the door of Dean’s cell.

Dean could attack him, and probably win, but there’s an entire station of cops outside, and they wouldn’t get very far. So he plays along, allowing the cop to pull him to his feet and lead him from the room.

Sam’s worried gaze follows him as the door is closed behind them.

Dean swallows down his anxiety and trains his eyes on the bare hallway before him. His footsteps, and the cop’s, tap against the linoleum and echo off the plaster walls in time with the chime of the chains on his hands and feet.

Soon they reach an interrogation room, and another cop opens the door for him. His cop follows him into the room and stands silently behind the chair.

“I’m serious about the cigars, Nelson,” says someone from outside, their silhouette appearing on the other side of the blinded window. “You need to stop.”

“She’ll sneak them anyway, you know that!” says another voice, following the first speaker and with a third man by his side.

“Yeah, whatever. Just get in there and do your job,” groans the first voice exasperatedly. The door is swung open and two men enter the room.

One is fairly ordinary looking, slightly overweight with too-long blonde hair surrounding an unassuming face. He wears a gray suit, and his gaze is slightly nervous as it rests upon Dean.

The other is on his arm, and he is different. He is dressed smartly in black and white, his dark hair combed back from a handsome face, eyes hidden by a pair of round, red-tinted sunglasses. He loosely holds a cane in one hand, quietly tapping it before each step.

He is clearly blind. Dean shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how to treat a man with a disability as such. He’s never been great at this kind of thing. Sensitivity is Sam’s area.

The two men sit, the blind one with surprising fluidity. His hand searches for the position of a chair almost as an afterthought, as if he somehow knows exactly where it is. Dean realizes that he is staring and tears his gaze away to look at the man’s partner, who seems to be glaring at him.

Oops.

“Lawyers, huh?” says Dean cockily, falling back on his usual weapon of sarcasm and confidence. “I wanna sue for poor room service.”

“Shut up,” snaps the cop who led him in. Dean opens his mouth to retort something snarky, but he pauses when the blind man holds up a hand in the general direction of the policeman.

“Henry, right?”

The cop looks uncertain for a moment, before nodding. The long-haired man nudges his companion. “He just nodded,” he murmurs, and the cop looks mortified.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry—“

“It’s fine,” says the blind man nonchalantly. “Henry, could you let us speak to our client in private?”

Henry shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not certain—“

“Let him have his lawyer-talk,” says a dark-skinned cop from the door. Henry bites his lip, glancing between his apparent superior (Mahoney, according to his badge), the blind-man, and Dean.

“Henry, it’s cool. Murdock knows what he’s doing.”

Henry nods and does as instructed. Mahoney shoots the lawyers a look as he goes to follow, saying, “You better know what you’re doing.”

The long-haired man smiles reassuringly. “We’re good. Yup. Totally good. You can leave, thank _you,_ Brett.”

Mahoney makes the classic ‘I’m watching you’ signal with his fingers before closing the door behind them. The lock clicks, and the pair of lawyers turn towards Dean.

“So. Um, yeah. So…we’re your lawyers,” begins the long-haired one awkwardly, twitching fingers on the tabletop betraying his nervousness. Dean raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You got names?” he asks skeptically.

“Matt Murdock,” the blind man says calmly, his voice smooth and low and rich like velvet. Unlike his partner, he does not appear to be nervous, or maybe he’s just better at hiding it. “This is Foggy Nelson. We’re attorneys from a private law firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Well, I’m Dean Winchester, and I gotta say, you got your work cut out for you on this one.”

Murdock lets out a single, huffing laugh. “Yes, we know.”

Nelson straightens, seemingly determined to make up for his earlier blunders. “ _Nelson and Murdock_ represents a very specific clientele. We’re here today to determine whether or not you fit that clientele, and whether or nor we should take your case.”

Dean scoffs. “And what exactly _is_ your clientele? Impossible cases?”

Murdock shakes his head and leans forward, and Dean shivers despite himself. Beneath the tinted glasses, the man’s sightless eyes seem to pierce his very soul, and Dean’s hunter instincts vaguely mull over the possibility that the lawyer could be not entirely human. He discards the idea as a ridiculous one.

“ _Nelson and Murdock_ represents only the innocent people who have been unjustly arrested,” says Murdock softly. “So tell me, Mr. Winchester. Are you innocent?” 

* * *

 

Winchester’s heart skips a beat, and Matt cocks his head a fraction of a degree to the left. He can feel Foggy’s eyes on him, watching him carefully, knowing exactly what is going on. It’s nice to have his best friend at his back, instead of naively in the shadows of Matt’s own lies.

There is a moment of relative silence (Matt’s world is never truly silent) as Winchester seems to debate his next words. Then, slowly, deliberately, he opens his mouth. It freezes in position, tongue pressed against the roof, before he speaks.

“No.”

A single-word answer. A simple yes-or-no question. No complexities, no trickery, and no way for Dean to misunderstand. There is no reason for the man to reply as he did, no advantage behind this angle.

But he’s not lying.

“No, I am not innocent,” continues Winchester, all of his previous jest gone and his tone now deadly serious. “I’ve done things that I’m not proud of, and I’ll be the first to admit that.” He swallows hard, and Matt can sense the tension in his shoulders.

“But those murders? Those cold-blooded, evil, psychopathic killings, without motive or reasoning? That robbery in Milwaukee, those tortures in St. Louis?” He pauses, and Foggy leans forward slightly by Matt’s side.

“Those weren’t me, and they weren’t Sam. I’m no murderer.”

His heart is steady, with no hesitation that Matt can detect. His words are clear and distinct, and he speaks with chilling severity.

“Matt?” breathes Foggy questioningly, too quiet for Winchester to hear but with more than enough volume for Matt’s heightened senses. He is waiting for his friend’s verdict, knowing full well that Winchester’s future rests on Matt’s shoulders.

Matt sits back, his hands sliding from the tabletop and smoothly folding together on his lap.

“I believe you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so that's that. I'm inclined to leave it there, but I will say that if you guys really want me to add to it, I will. Here's the catch: you have to comment if you want it. I'm not a mindreader. (Or am I...?)


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wrap the story up in this chapter, but it just kept getting longer and longer and the writing was coming slower and slower and I figured I should just give you guys what you wanted. Part Three will be posted as soon as I write it, which could be anywhere from a day to a month.
> 
> On a side note, this story officially takes place in between Supernatural episodes 8.17 and 8.19, i.e. during the time that Cas is in the wind with the Angel Tablet and before Sam begins the Trials. So in case you were wondering, that means no Castiel in this fic. Sorry, I know, I love him too, but he didn't really work for me in this. It just complicated things.
> 
> Thank you, all, for your wonderful support! Each and every letter of your reviews made me smile bigger. Every single kudos received made me feel warm inside. Every hit listed made me shiver with joy. I could write until my head exploded and it wouldn't matter if there was no one to read it, so everything is owed to you. I love you all very, very much, and am so grateful that you would lend me your time and read the product of my mind's whims. 
> 
> Finally, as promised, Part Two.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that! Sam, I’m not making this up.”

“Okay, fine. Just so we’re perfectly clear. Two lawyers from a private firm decide to represent us for no apparent reason. They claim to only accept innocent clients, before asking you, with  _immeasurable_ proof against you, if you are guilty of your crimes. You say no, of course, and they just _believe_ you?”

Dean nods emphatically. “Yes, Sam!”

“I’d say maybe he was studying your physical queues for any sign of lying, but, oh, yeah, the man is apparently _blind_.” Sam shakes his head and turns his back to Dean’s cell, fuming. This is ridiculous.

“What else did they say?”

“Nothing,” says Dean. There is a metallic squeaking noise, like Sam’s brother has shifted on the creaky bedsprings. “Just that they needed time to think and left. Then the cops brought me back here.”

“ _Nelson and Murdock_ ,” Sam muses, fingers itching for a laptop to search the name. He heaves a sigh and plops down onto the bed. “Dean, that case was not worth this.”

Dean shrugs at him, a small, easy smile on his lips. “Hey, at least we ganked that goddamn werewolf.”

A bubble of laughter rises in Sam’s throat, because this is just so ridiculous and the day’s been so long and he is so, so tired. The laughter swells inside of him before popping, and soon enough his shoulders are shaking in slightly mad hysterics.

Dean is staring at him with a mixture of confusion, incredulity, and concern. “Dude,” he says warily. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A werewolf,” laughs Sam, drawing in a shaky breath before dissolving once again. “We’ve been arrested and are going to be incarcerated for life—“ he has to break again for a deep-throated chortle that leaves him gasping for air—“because of a friggin’ _werewolf_.”

Dean just looks at him like he’s crazy, but Sam can’t care less. He laughs for a long time, a small part of his mind wondering whether he hasn’t lost it completely, before finally collapsing back against the wall with a weary sigh.

“Are you done?”

Sam closes his eyes, all humor draining out of him with frightening rapidity. “Yeah,” he says tiredly.

“We’ll figure something out,” assures Dean for what must be the millionth time. “I promise.”

Sam snorts dejectedly. “You keep saying that, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re in chains.” He holds up his bound wrists to demonstrate, before dropping them back into his lap. “You tried calling Cas?”

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah. No answer. I dunno where he is, or if he’s even still out there.”

“We could try his phone,” begins Sam somewhat doubtfully, but he knows that it is futile. They’ve tried his phone, and he’s not answering. For all they know, he ditched the number, but whatever happened, the angel is not contacting them.

Oh, and they’re behind bars. Right.

“We’ve tried. You know that’s not gonna work.”

Sam sighs and nods silently, turning to peer in the general direction of the barred window that is placed high on the cell wall, right near the ceiling and only just barely above the reach of his eyesight when standing flat-footed. They only have each other to get out of this one. Just like old times.

Maybe it’s better that way.

The door screeches on un-oiled hinges as it swings open. Sam looks up to see a cop entering the room, and they lock gazes. From the corner of his eye, Sam can see Dean straightening, face slamming into the granite mask that he thinks is so impervious.

To be fair, he’s mostly right. It’s only Sam who can see past it.

Sam is expecting for the cop to bring out his keys, unlock one of their doors to bring them back to interrogation. Perhaps it is his turn to meet these mysterious lawyers. He is surprised, however, when the cop steps aside to admit the said pair, blind man loosely guided by his partner’s arm, who in turn inspects both brothers with an inquisitive air.

The cop catches the shorter man’s arm as the pair moves past him, a warning look on his face. “You sure about this?”

“Brett, we’ll be fine,” assures the man with a winning smile on his face. “We prefer to speak to both of our clients at the same time.”

The cop—Brett—looks uncertain, but releases the lawyer all the same. “I’ll be just outside the door,” he says. He sends a sharp glare first at Dean and then at Sam, clearly issuing a threat should any harm come to the attorneys.

“Thank you, Brett,” says the blind man smoothly, and Brett leaves, the door shutting with a heavy clang behind him.

“Hello,” the blind man says pleasantly. “I’m Matt Murdock.”

“Foggy Nelson.”

“We’re here to represent you in the court of law.”

Sam blinks. “We don’t have the money to pay you.” Dean is shaking his head at him, but he ignores it. Surely the pair must know this? Why else would he and Dean partake in credit card fraud?

Nelson falters briefly, glancing at his partner before replying. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” asks Dean, and it is the same question that rests on the tip of Sam’s tongue.

“Because,” says Murdock calmly, as if the answer should be obvious. “We believe you to be innocent.”

 

* * *

 

_“Dean!” shouts Sam, twisting away from the claw-like nails that reach towards his face, the pointed teeth that snap at him from between a pair of unnervingly human lips. “Dean!”_

_A gunshot rings through the night, and the werewolf lets out a sharp cry of pain, halfway between the scream of a human and the howl of an animal. It stops trying to claw Sam’s eyes out and collapses—right on top of him._

_Sam coughs at the sudden weight and shivers at the still-warm blood that seeps into his shirt. He rolls over, pushing the werewolf away and sitting back on his heels._

_“Sammy!” barks Dean worriedly, dropping to his side and running careful hands over his chest in search of a wound. Sam shakes his head, shoving his brother away. It takes him a moment to regain his voice, and when he does, he is quick to reassure._

_“Not my blood,” he says, gesturing at the dead monster. Dean nods and climbs to his feet, offering a hand to help Sam up. He accepts, and soon they are both standing._

_“So,” says Dean after a pause. “It was the waitress.”_

_They’d thought it was the homeless man who constantly lingers by the trash bins outside of the café. It hadn’t occurred to them that the pretty young woman inside was the one behind all those customers mauled in the alleyway._

_A siren wails in the distance._

_“Hey,” says Sam, a thought occurring to him. “Didn’t you hit on her?”_

_Dean makes a face at him. “Shut up,” he growls, unloading the clip from his gun and sticking it in his pocket. He starts to move down the deserted street in the direction of the Impala, leaving Sam to follow._

_“I bet that’s why the victims were all guys,” continues Sam conversationally. “She promised to meet them out there, and then she ate their hearts.”_

_A second siren joins in, the wailing cacophony growing louder. Neither brother takes notice. This is New York. Crimes are a regular occurrence._

_Dean ignores him, and Sam chuckles softly. It’s always fun to get on his brother’s nerves, and it helps to alleviate the tension. Because it’s true. If Dean had taken his flirtation a step further (as was his general way), he might be dead by now._

_Or maybe not. Sam is the first to admit that his older brother is one of the best hunters out there. Maybe even better then their father, though of course he’d never dare to say that out loud._

_The next occurrence happens so quickly that Sam barely has time to register. One minute he is teasing his brother, pondering how differently the night could have gone, and the next his vision is awash in flashing blue and red, surrounded by the clicking of guns and the shouting of policemen._

_The cars surround them like a wall, blocking their way back to the Impala. “Put your hands behind your head!” shouts a cop from behind a car door, gun aimed squarely at Dean’s chest. “Get down on your knees!”_

_“Damnit,” curses Dean violently. Sam exchanges a glance with him, falling back on deeply-rooted instincts and searching for orders. Should they run? Fight? Surrender?_

_“Down on your knees!_ Now! _”_

_“Dean—“_

_“Do as he says.” Sam takes a moment to register that. Dean is giving in, without any fight at all? Surely he has a plan. Surely he is only pretending to surrender. But one glance at the look in his brother’s eyes, and Sam knows that Dean is just as lost as he is._

_“Dean…” he repeats, ashamed of how frightened he sounds. He’s a hunter. He shouldn’t be afraid of anything, and yet he is, because these are not monsters. These are people._

_“Do as he says, Sammy!” orders Dean with a growl, and Sam is forced to watch with wide eyes as his older brother places both hands behind his head and kneels. There is nothing for Sam to do but follow suit._

_As the cops surge forward, guns at the ready and cuffs locking around wrists and ankles, chains—so, so many chains—restraining men who are meant to be free, Sam’s eye wonders to the corner of a nearby building. He freezes as he catches a glimpse of a security camera, glinting in the light from the police cars and in perfect position to have caught the killing of the werewolf._

_Coming to New York really was a terrible idea._

* * *

 

“You do?” says Sam skeptically. Matt can feel Foggy’s eyes shift towards him briefly, apparently reaffirming that he hasn’t gone insane. Matt honestly can’t blame him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, fingers clenching by his side. “Believe it or not, we—“ he falters, before continuing anyway with the awkward phrasing, “—believe you.” He clears his throat. “Or rather, _Matt_ here believes you, and I believe him.”

Oh, Matt wishes Foggy hadn’t shared that. It makes them seem weak. Overly-trusting.

But what’s said has been said and so he rolls with it, rolls with it in the same way he would deflect a punch thrown his direction. He grabs the metaphorical arm by the wrist and uses the opponent’s momentum to send them hurtling into the wall behind, uses the fact that they are off-balance to regain his own footing.

Murdock boys get knocked down, sure, but they always get back up.

“In other words,” he says in his usual smooth tones. “It is our belief that there is more to the story than what has been presented, and we’d like to bring the full truth of past occurrences to light. We want to hear your side of the story.”

Dean laughs. “You’re not gonna be able to clear us of charges, pal,” he says. “You seen our records?”

“Dean!” hisses Sam, and Dean seems to reconsider his words.

“I mean, um—“

Matt shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, and barely a second later, Foggy continues with, “He’s not sensitive.”

“Oh,” says Sam. Both brothers are silent, unsure what to say. Matt lets them languish in the awkwardness for a moment, before finally taking pity on them. By his side, Foggy shakes with barely suppressed laughter.

“Yes, I’m fully aware of the charges placed against you,” says Matt as if the conversation had never veered from its steady flow. “Which is why, like I said, we need to hear what _you_ have to say about it.”

The air whispers around the turning of two heads, the grinding sound of shifting vertebrae fills the air around the brothers as they exchange a glance. They seem to do this often, looking to each other for council. It seems like something special, private, something that is deeply _theirs_ and cannot be taken from them.

They are not the only ones that Matt has witnessed share glances in this way, and it makes him feel slightly sick to his stomach. How much can be communicated within a simple exchange of eye contact? How close must one be to share this intimate bond? How vital is this non-verbal communication to proper conversation, and, most importantly, how much is Matt missing?

Most of the time he is accepting of his blindness, the heightened senses more than an even compensation. But it is at certain times—when people gasp in awe at the beauty of a sunset, or remark on the multitude of stars above, or when some vital information is kept on a peace of paper (the memory of that night with Nobu, those papers that could have held endless secrets held just beyond his reach and sold to him at much too high a cost) and he must wait to be read to, the daily news, the crossword puzzle, the letter from a client, the next book in a favorite series that is yet to be converted to audio—it is at these times that he wishes he still had his sight.

“Um,” says Dean, faltering. “Could you give us a minute?”

Foggy narrows his eyes and steps forward, and Matt can hear the suspicious pattern of his heart. “Mr. Winchester,” says Foggy. “We just want the truth.”

Sam lets out a sarcastic chuckle, as if he finds the situation ironic and cannot quite contain the bitter humor inside. It is quiet, and Matt is forced to pretend it was not heard.

“Listen, pal,” says Dean, shaking his head. “The truth is that we were framed. That’s all there is to it.”

“By who?” queries Foggy. “And why? And how? And, if you were framed, how do you explain the footage of yourselves murdering all those people?”

Matt thinks perhaps Foggy doesn’t believe him as much as he had assured. To be fair, a single person’s word is not much to combat the horrific evidence presented plainly against the Winchesters’ case.

There is a heartbeat that is missed by their two clients, and Matt realizes that they are hiding something. He is about to demand the truth, the full truth, when the moment is broken by a sudden explosion of static in his ears. He startles, hands gripping his cane tightly to keep from falling.

The others have noticed, three heads turned in his direction. “Matt?” asks Foggy tentatively.

Matt ignores him, cocking his head slightly to the side and listening intently to the sounds in the surrounding police station.

“ _—in flames. Several injured civilians, no present casualties. Perpetrators are armed and dangerous; weapons unclear, but obviously present. Requesting back—“_

There is a knock on the door, and then Brett is stepping in, heart beating erratically. “Time’s up,” he says sharply.

“What’s going on?” demands Matt, a feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. Of course, he knows bad things happen during the day, when he’s Matt Murdock and not Daredevil, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Some sort of fight. But it’s weird…” he shakes his head. “You need to go.”

“What sort of ‘weird’?” asks Sam. He is standing, clutching the bars of his cell and peering out at them. Dean has similarly risen, the pulse of his heart indicating that his thoughts are racing.

“None of your business,” snaps Brett, stepping aside and gesturing wildly for Matt and Foggy to leave.

“Brett, what’s happening?” asks Matt softly.

The policeman glances at the Winchesters and worries his lip for a moment before answering. “They can’t see the weapons, but the levels of destruction are catastrophic. It’s like the goddamn Battle of New York all over again, just on a smaller scale.”

Foggy inhales sharply. “Any sign of the big leagues?”

“The Avengers, you mean?” Brett shakes his head and sighs unhappily. “No.”

“He’s right, Foggy,” says Matt automatically. “We should go.”

“Matt—“

The blind lawyer pushes past Brett, only just remembering to tap his cane in front of him. Foggy hurries after him, hardly able to keep up and nearly getting lost in the commotion.

Matt makes it to the front door and hurries into the neighboring alleyway. Without pause he tosses his cane into a nearby trash heap and bends his knees, springing upwards and catching the landing of a fire escape with his fingertips.

“Matt, wait!” cries Foggy from the road below, but Matt ignores him, instead racing across the rooftop and jumping to the next. He has to get back to his apartment, has to get his suit, his batons, has to get to the apparently superhuman fight and _help_. He can hear it, hear the screaming and the crackling fire and a high-pitched whining that throws his senses off enough that he misjudges a leap and tumbles clumsily on his usually smooth landing.

For a moment he lies sprawled across the hard concrete of the rooftop. Then he takes a long, slow breath and the moment is over. He climbs to his feet, brushes off his hands, straightens his glasses, shakes his head once against the irritating whine, and then he is gone, racing homewards.

 

* * *

 

Matt perches on the eaves of a building, sunken low into a crouch and holding his balance with the light support of one hand, wrapped as it is around the reassuring presence of his baton. His other hand is poised by his side, clutching its own weapon.

He is ready.

Or, rather, he _would_ be ready if not for the horrendous screeching that fills his ears and renders him functionally blind. (In the far reaches of his mind he muses over the irony of the situation.)

He’s been subjected to high-pitched noises before, of course. The blow of a whistle as a high school gym teacher reprimands his students, the shriek of a teakettle as it rudely announces its readiness, the wail of a fire alarm, the screech of a dog whistle; all are examples of the ordinary items that prove so torturous to his delicate senses.

The difference is that usually he can tell where the noise is coming from. Now, though, it is all around him, massive and layered like the ocean.

Matt takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself. He closes his eyes (unnecessarily, but he likes the illusion) and concentrates on the sound, though this only makes harsher the bombardment on his senses. He grabs on as if it were a piece of string and follows it pull, sliding imagined fingertips along the line to reach its source.

Heartbeats. Human heartbeats. A smell of incense, a hint of flame. He focuses harder on the opposing group, thankful when he realizes that these individuals are not shrouded in the piercing whine. Air currents move around them, showing that they are human-shaped, and their hearts beat like drums, oddly in sync and almost ritualistic, as if they are unnecessary and present simply for appearances. And they smell like…

Matt recoils from the smell of rotten eggs, the smell of flame, the terrible, terrible smell of death.

Death. Fire. Sulfur.

They smell like Hell.

The Devil is out of his depth. Far, far out of his depth. Part of his mind denies what he is experiencing, but Matt is no idiot. He knows what this means.

He is a devoted Catholic. He believes in God and his Angels. And he believes in the Devil, though recently (and under Father Lantom’s careful guidance) he’s come to think of the Adversary less as an actual entity and more of a metaphor for the evil in humanity. But demons. Actual demons facing off against some shrill beings that he cannot get a proper read on because of the sheer volume of their noise, the contradictory presences that are human-sized and tall as a building at the same time? Matt isn’t sure he’s prepared for this.

Scratch that, he’s definitely not prepared for this.

That said, just because he can’t fight doesn’t mean he can’t listen.

 

* * *

 

The door was left open and the guards are talking. They don’t seem to realize that Dean can hear them.

Not well, but enough to understand that the commotion in the middle of the Kitchen is of the supernatural variety. Angels, it sounds like. Maybe demons, too, but it’s hard to say for sure.

But there’s something else.

“You think he’s gonna show?”

“You mean the Devil?”

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, mirrored expressions of puzzlement on their faces.

“I dunno. He usually only does his thing at night.”

“Sorry to interrupt, pals, but what the hell are you talking about?” interjects Dean, ignoring the look Sam is sending his way. The guards stop dead in their conversation and stare at him.

“None o’ your business,” says the shorter one in a thick New Yorker accent.

“Something about the Devil?” continues Dean. “Come on, guys, there’s no entertainment in here. Tell us a story.”

The shorter one looks to his partner with one eyebrow raised, and the taller man shrugs. “Go ahead,” he says, as if he couldn't care less.

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” says the shorter one, turning back to the Winchesters grudgingly. “That’s what the papers call him. Or they did. Now they’re using Daredevil.”

Dean snorts. “Daredevil? Seriously?”

“It beats ‘The Man in the Black Mask,” says the taller one, arms crossing in front of his chest as he leans against the wall. Dean has to agree with him.

“Anyway, whatever you call him, he’s a character,” continues the shorter cop. “Used to run around all in black, upper half of his face covered. Now he goes out in red. Only at night, and you never see his face. Not sure how, but whenever there’s trouble in Hell’s Kitchen, he’s there. Last year he helped bring down a big-time crime lord, Wilson Fisk.”

“Is he a cop?” asks Sam, finally joining the conversation. Both guards shakes head simultaneously.

“Vigilante,” says the taller one. “And he’s got an arrest warrant.”

“Really? It sounds like he’s doing good,” says Sam. “Beating up the bad guys.”

“Emphasis on _beating,_ ” growls the taller one. “Guy pounds them within an inch of their lives.”

“You ever seen him?” questions Dean, hunter instincts screaming at him that something about this ‘Daredevil’ character is not quite right.

“Once,” says the shorter one. “Guy’s a killer fighter. Uses these sticks and just flips all over the place. It’s weird, though. It can be pitch black and raining, and he’s not bothered. Knows exactly where he is, where his opponents are, where he’s needed. It’s almost…”

Sam leans forward. “Almost what?”

“Inhuman.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, it is surprisingly easy to escape a station of flustered policeman. A distracted and harried cop comes to bring them food, and from there it is very easy to slip the key ring from his belt and use it to unlock the cage once he has left. The door to the room (which had been closed once again as the guards were called away) slides open with ease, and both Winchesters make their silent ways towards the rear of the station, where two more guards are smoothly knocked out and propped up against the wall as Sam and Dean escape out the back.

Sam wants to just get the hell out of New York, but Dean has his mind set on hunting the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

In the end, it is the older brother’s stubborn will that dominates.

(Besides, there seems to be some sort of angel/demon turf war going down on 42nd street, and the Winchesters kind of have to do something about it.)

 


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here, it's done, and it's really freaking long. And I mean really, REALLY long. Sorry about the wait, but I hope this makes up for it.
> 
> In this chapter, there's some OC action going on. I'm really excited to introduce to you Aurora. She's half-demon, half-angel, Dean's adopted daughter, part-time Avenger and Daredevil's apprentice.  
> NO.  
> No, I won't do that to you. No stupid over-powered flowery-named warrior princess OCs. I promise. The OC does get a point of view, but he's a generic minor character who's present for about five paragraphs and then disappears, never to be seen again. He's essentially a plot device.  
> (Sorry if my strong feelings on OCs is offensive to anyone. I play it like I see it, okay? I'm 100% certified opinionated sarcasm.)
> 
> Anyway, without further ado...

Andriel is not pleased.

He is not pleased because he knows that his superiors will not be pleased. When his superiors aren’t pleased,  _their_ superiors won’t be pleased. The displeasure will go up and up the chain of command, and eventually it will reach the top. Then it will come back down, displeased angels all looking for someone to punish, and that someone will be Andriel.

Needless to say, he wants this cleaned up. And quickly.

Unfortunately, demons are stubborn bastards and not apt to simply give in. The whole matter had started out so trivially, and yet now it has escalated to such a point that the mud-monkeys are starting to notice.

Go figure.

The spat had begun in a bar. A lowly demon had been tempting humans into sin, a minor angel had been passing by and decided to stop it. The demon lashed out, and the angel was killed. The angel’s friends had retaliated, and the demons had responded in kind.

Andriel had been sent to clean it up. He hadn’t anticipated it taking so long.

“Stand down, demon!” he calls, angel-blade gleaming in his clenched fist. The demon laughs.

“And miss out on such fun? I think not.”

“It killed Damael!” yells Sarael, the dead angel’s closest friend. They’d behaved like siblings are supposed to, Andriel recalls. They protected each other.

“The feather-brain was interfering in our work!” shouts another demon. “It should’ve known better!”

“He was carrying out his heavenly duty!” retaliates Yael. She takes a step forward, eyes blazing, and the demon copies the action.

Andriel’s wings unfurl, shadows spreading across the buildings behind him that are alight with both hell-fire and heavenly blaze. “Enough!” he shouts. “This is unnecessary. Mistakes were made, and now we must leave! This is not our world, and we are being noticed by those whose world it is!”

“The humans?” sneers the demon who killed Damael. “They know nothing!”

“And yet they’ll learn,” growls Andriel. “If we continue to fight so publicly!”

Sarael throws up her hands. “Do you see a single human?” she says, gesturing at their deserted surroundings. “They fear us too greatly to interfere!”

Andriel rounds on her. “Your senses are blinded by anger, sister,” he spits. “We are being observed.”

Sarael blinks. “What?”

Across the asphalt sea, the lead demon stirs, black eyes traveling to a nearby rooftop. “He’s right,” it hisses. One of its kin nudges it, rolling its eyes.

“A human? So what? Let’s just kill it and be done.”

A third demon shifts nervously. “The Winchesters are human,” it points out.

The first demon smiles. “Yeah, well this is no Winchester. Think of it as target practice.”

Yael prods Andriel with one wing. “Should we stop them?” she murmurs.

Andriel thinks for a moment. On the one hand, it is their duty to protect God’s favorites. On the other, this human has presumably heard every word and so becomes a liability.

“No,” he says finally. “Let them have their way. If it gets them to stand down, then it is no harm to us.”

Yael nods and retreats, and the angels spread their wings as one and are quickly gone.

The demons grin at each other, before slowly advancing on the rooftop.

 

* * *

 

Matt is alarmed, to say the least. Muggers, he can handle. Rapists, murderers, domestic abusers, human traffickers, all are comfortably within the range of things he can deal with.

Demons? Not so much.

This is completely insane. He is religious, he believes in demons, but only abstractly. Not as something he would ever actually come across.

And yet here they are, smelling of sulfur and gleeful rage. Their footsteps pound the asphalt as they approach the building.

Matt stands, turns to go, but suddenly the reek of rotten eggs is much, much closer, encircling him with an abruptness that unsteadies him, betrayed by senses so finely tuned that he is never, never startled by an approaching person, be they friend or foe. Now, though, he has been surprised. He is not drugged, not wounded, not half-dead from blood loss, and he’d been unable to anticipate the newcomers’ appearances.

He stumbles, suddenly dizzy from the shock and the overwhelming stench. His hands rise before his face, clenched into fists in wary preparation.

One of the men (demons? He can’t come to terms with that) laughs. “ _Nice_ outfit,” he (it?) sneers.

Matt tries to speak (who are you, what are you, why are you here and what do you want) but instead finds himself twisting away from the jab of a punch. He grabs the arm and _pulls,_ sending the offender stumbling away as he himself rolls across the rooftop so that he is standing opposite the group, their perfect ring now an encroaching bunch.

“Get out of my city,” he growls on a breath, shoulder hunched defensively. He backs slowly away, listening to the stretch of muscles and skin and the grinding of teeth as the demons smile at each other; they are enjoying this.

That more than anything fuels his rage, and he lunges forward suddenly, grabbing one of his aggressors by the shoulder and using his own momentum to throw the man towards the edge. The aggressor’s head hits the ground with a sharp crack, and he is knocked unconscious.

It is at this point that Matt is attacked in earnest. Most of the blows he is able to dodge, the whistle of air current around the fists betraying their presence. Some of them do hit their target, though, and the taste of blood is hot in his mouth. These men (or demons, or whatever) are strong, stronger than anyone or anything that Matt has ever fought.

He is not prepared for this.

Still, he is able to land a few blows of his own, launching up from the balls of his feet and twisting in the air so that an attacker is felled with a single, powerful sweep of his legs. He has used this move before, secretly revels in the brutality and loves the efficiency, but it takes so much more force to take these men down and so he falls as well. He is quick to regain his feet, but the pause was enough for the demons to make their move.

A hand clasps around his throat, presses into his chest to force the air from his lungs, and yet it is surreal. He can feel the pressure, but there is no physical body. Matt chokes, blood staining his lips, as the invisible force lifts him into the air and throws him against the brick wall that surrounds the roof access.

His senses cloud with the smell of iron, and he bites back a moan. He will not show weakness. Cannot show weakness.

_Sometimes, Matty, the Devil’s inside you, and you just gotta give him what he wants._

His father’s voice rings through Matt’s mind, unbidden, clear and vibrant as the day the words were first spoken. Matt presses his lips together and swallows thickly.

Then he lets the Devil out.

* * *

 

The street is quiet when the Impala roars to a stop, her engine disturbing the eerie silence. All around them is the aftermath of some great fight; fires smolder in the shattered walls of the surrounding buildings, ash and sulfur dusting the road and sticking in the occasional splatters of blood.

The doors of the car creak in harmony as two Winchesters simultaneously push them open and step out into the street. Sam exhales slowly.

“What happened here?” he asks, voice low and breathy as his eyes wander about his surroundings. Dean shrugs, moving to join him on the passenger side of the car.

“I dunno,” he says. “But whatever it was, it ain’t over.” He nods towards the roof of a nearby building, and Sam follows his gaze.

There is a group of six or seven people on that roof, all facing off against a lone figure clad in red leather. The latter is holding his own surprisingly well against such odds, until one of the aggressors raises a hand and slams him against the stairwell with violent force.

“Demon,” say both brothers. They exchange a glance and then start running.

There is no one in the building to stop them as they hurtle up the staircase, dust motes dancing in the beams of light that pierce through the windows and futilely attempt to illuminate the dimness of the twisting verticle corridor. Sam reaches the top first, his long legs taking the steps three at time. His hand clutches the demon knife (Ruby’s knife, but he tries not to think of it that way because then it feels like murder) as he pushes through the doorway, metal hinges rattling and scraping.

Sam blinks in the light, stumbling slightly as Dean crashes into him. “Dude!” hisses his older brother irritably. “Why’d you stop?”

“Dean…” breathes Sam. “Look.”

The aggressors are undoubtedly demons. It is apparent in their inhuman strength, in their black eyes, in the blood that slides ignored from impact wounds upon their foreheads. They are powerful, they are malicious, they are angry.

The odds are the worst imaginable, a lone man against so much brunt force. And yet he is holding his own.

 _The man is holding his own against a hoard of demons_.

“Jesus Christ.” Sam’s not sure which of them said it, maybe both, but it is the thought in both brothers’ minds. The man in red is flipping through the air like a demon of his own, arms and legs a whirlwind of defense that plows through the demons like they are made of paper.

No human can do that.

“Dean,” murmurs Sam. “What are the chances that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is a supernatural being?”

Dean shrugs vaguely. They watch in silence for a little while longer.

Daredevil is thrown to the ground across the roof, grunting briefly in pain. “You gonna help?” he huffs, just barely dodging a fast-moving punch and angling his head towards the Winchesters.

Sam and Dean exchange glances. “Right,” they say in unison. As well as Daredevil is holding out, he can’t last forever and the demons aren’t staying down.

Sam starts forward, raising the knife and whirling into action. He grabs a demon by the shoulder and jams the knife into its stomach, a feeling of mingled satisfaction and guilt flooding through him at the familiar flash of light jarring through the demon’s system before it crumples. In the brief pause that he is allowed, he scans above the demons’ heads for Dean’s location.

His brother is on the opposite side of the roof, holding his own with a shotgun full of salt. Dean seems to sense his glance and looks up, face set in grim concentration and barely concealed glee.

They make short work of the demons. They’re not a particularly powerful bunch, and the Winchesters have faced so much worse.

Soon they stand alone on the roof, surrounded by a circle of bodies. A siren wails in the distance and Sam wipes the blade off of a demon’s baggy sweatshirt.

He turns his head at the sound of heavy breathing to see Daredevil using the stairwell wall to clamber to his feet. He is tensed, entire body radiating with hostile poise, head cocked in their direction.

There is a pause. Dean is the first to speak.

“Hey.”

Daredevil shifts uncertainly, the arm not supporting him clutched against his side and his breathing labored. There is a telltale gleam of wetness on the leather and a splatter of blood around his lips, and Sam suspects broken ribs and possibly a punctured lung.

“What are you doing in my city?” asks Daredevil, the question flat and low on velvety tones that sound vaguely familiar.

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean beats him to it with a dry laugh. “Saving your ass, for one.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“You kinda did,” says Dean with his usual snark, and Sam has to stifle a sigh.

“Dean…” he admonishes, sending his brother a glare before turning back to Daredevil with his hands raised in a sign of good will. “Look, I know what it’s like to reject help. It makes you feel weak, I get it, and no one likes that feeling. But as well as you were doing, you couldn’t have held out forever. Them?” He gestures to the bodies around him. “They could. Easily.”

Daredevil shifts again. “They—“ he stops and coughs, scarlet droplets following his breath out onto his lips. He licks them away. “They aren’t human.” It’s a question, sort of, phrased like a statement but tinged with curiosity.

“No,” says Dean. “They’re not. They’re demons.”

“Demons,” breathes Daredevil, the air whistling uncomfortably through his lungs. “Of course.”

“How about you?” continues Dean with his usual lack of tact. “You human?”

The question seems to surprise Daredevil, as he stumbles a bit where he stands. “What?”

“Are you human?”

“Of—“ another hack, and Sam realizes that they should really be concerned. “Of course.”

Unable to deny the inquiry bubbling in his throat, Sam speaks up. “How can you fight like that?”

Daredevil huffs out a laugh, leaning his head back against the brick behind him. “I’m just a man who wants to help.” He pauses, shifting once more. “Like you.”

“Excuse me?” retorts Dean.

“You’re the Winchesters. Criminals. Convicted. You’re supposed to be locked up in the precinct. I should—“ he moves forward as if to attack them, legs buckling beneath him. “You—“

Then he falls, blood staining the concrete rooftop where he hits it. Sam drops the demon knife and rushes forward, but Dean catches his arm.

“What are you doing?” his brother says.

“We have to help him!” Sam snaps as he pulls towards the unconscious vigilante.

“Sam, he might not even be human. And if he is, you heard him! He knows who we are, somehow, and he’s a _vigilante_. He’ll tip off the police or, or, something.”

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Dean!” he cries angrily. “This man is dying! He isn’t doing anything right now except bleeding out on the rooftop, and I’m sorry if I can’t take another needless death on my conscience!”

Dean sighs, looking torn. “Fine. But be careful.”

Sam rushes forward and drops to his knees by Daredevil’s side. Stripping his off first his jacket and then his flannel overshirt, he puts the jacket on once again and wads up the flannel, which he presses to the seeping wound in the man’s side. Keeping one hand firmly on the fabric, his eyes drift to Daredevil’s face, to the red mask hiding his eyes and the blood that stains his lips.

He knows better than anyone that secrets are deeply personal. He knows that it’s none of his business. But if he’s going to help this man…

Dean’s eyes are on his back, he can feel them. He glances over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows at his brother, free hand hovering over Daredevil’s face. Dean understands immediately, nodding at him with lips pursed together.

Slowly Sam curls his fingers around the leather of the cowl, carefully peeling it back. His breath catches in his throat as the man’s face is revealed.

A strong jaw, full lips to rival Dean’s, a light dotting of stubble. All previously visible, but now paired with dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Mentally Sam paints a picture of red-tinted glasses covering the man’s eyes, and the thought he couldn’t quite grasp is now fully formed.

“Dean,” he breathes. Dean moves to his side and crouches, exhaling loudly.

“Son of a bitch.”

* * *

 

It’s on the news, a grainy video of a red-clad figure facing off against a pack of people with impossible strength, taken from an apartment window by a panicked civilian with a poor sense of self-preservation. Daredevil is terrifying, and for the first time Foggy really grasps why people call his friend the Devil.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. Brett glances at him from where they stand in the middle of the precinct.

“Maybe you should go home.”

Foggy chews his lips and nods. “Yeah,” he says distractedly, eyes glued to the cycling footage of Matt getting the shit beat out of him.

“Yeah,” he repeats, more definite this time, and his feet move towards the door of their own accord. He stops once he’s outside, not sure what to do. Should he call Matt, or will that merely distract him enough to get him killed? Should he go home? To the office? Should he check on Karen? Wait in Matt’s apartment for when he gets back?

Probably the last one. That’s where Matt will stumble back to, bleeding and bruised and in need of a good yelling at from someone who knows him.

Foggy feels helpless, and he hates it.

He moves to the curb and flags down a cab, directing the driver to Matt’s apartment. The ride passes in a blur, the quiet murmur of crappy pop music from the radio barely reaching his ears. Soon enough, the taxi pulls to a stop and the driver is asking for his fare. Foggy pays it wordlessly, clambering out into the crisp September air.

His doesn’t feel like taking the elevator today; it’s unpredictable and he needs the climb to clear his head. Matt’s door will be locked, but Foggy knows that the roof access is always open so that his friend can slip in and out quietly, and in case of emergencies involving blood and unconsciousness and fear.

The last time Foggy used the roof access was the night he first found Matt bleeding on the floor. He closes his eyes against the painful memories and steps carefully over the missing bottom step.

Foggy paces for a good half hour before the windows, the light from that god-awful billboard filling the dim room and casting odd shadows across the furniture. Unable to bear it anymore, Foggy pulls his phone from his pocket and dials Matt’s number. He needs to know what’s happening, and damn the consequences.

The phone rings four times, and Foggy bounces on the balls of his feet in anxiety. “C’mon, Matty, pick up the phone,” he mutters.

_Click._

“ _Hello?”_ comes the wary voice, and Foggy freezes. That’s not Matt.

“You’re not Matt.” Foggy realizes too late that maybe he shouldn’t have revealed Matt’s name to a potential assailant, but the damage has already been done.

“ _Um, no. But—“_

“What did you do to him?”

“ _Nothing! Nothing. I just wanna help.”_

“Who are you?”

A pause, as if the person on the other end is pondering something, and line is filled with static like someone has put their hand over the speaker. Foggy can hear faint voices, too muffled to make out. So whoever has Matt’s phone isn’t alone.

“ _You’re Foggy Nelson, right?”_

Foggy freezes. His first name was available on the burner phone via caller ID, but Matt was always careful to keep sensitive information away from hostile hands. He’d never bring Foggy’s name into his war.

“How do you know who I am?”

_“We’ve met.”_

“Have we?”

There is another pause. Then, “ _I’m Sam Winchester.”_

Foggy has the sudden urge to hurl the phone against the opposing wall, but he resists. “How did you get out of the precinct? What did you do to Matt? Where are you? Why are you doing this? This won’t help your case, you know. Generally when you’re trying to get acquitted of all charges, you don’t kidnap your lawyer!”

“ _Whoa, whoa, slow down!”_ soothes Winchester. “ _I already told you we didn’t hurt him, and we didn’t kidnap him either. Look, Foggy, there are things in this world that you don’t know about. Dark things.”_

“You don’t get to call me Foggy. You’re a criminal.”

_“I thought you believed that we’re innocent.”_

“Matt believes you’re innocent, and I believe Matt. But I’m beginning to have serious doubts.” Foggy stops, thinking back to what the man had moments ago said. “What dark things? What do you mean?”

_“It doesn’t matter. Just…you’re friend is in trouble.”_

Something in Foggy stops. “What?”

 _“Um, we’re on the top of a building at 42 nd and 5th,” _says Winchester. _“There was a—a brawl of sorts, and, well, Matt—“_

“Oh, god, how bad is it?”

 _“Well,”_ Winchester clears his throat uncomfortably and Foggy has to choke back a scream of frustration. “ _He’s unconscious, for one thing. He got beaten up pretty good.”_

He’s avoiding the subject, trying to protect Foggy from the truth of the matter because he thinks he can’t handle it. Foggy hates that, hates that people are constantly patronizing him because they think he’s too soft. He’s tired of being weak.

“ _How. Bad.”_

Winchester sighs. “ _There’s an open wound on his side that’s bleeding pretty well. Definite broken ribs and I suspect a punctured lung.”_

“Jesus Christ,” breathes Foggy. “Jesus—“ he would curse more, but he can’t summon up the energy. Suddenly feeling as if he is made of Jell-O, he sinks down onto Matt’s couch.

Foggy is weak. His best friend is injured and probably dying, being cared for by convicted murderers.

No more weakness. It’s time to be useful. For once in his life, he can be useful.

“Matt has a friend who patches him up whenever this happens,” Foggy says, surprised by how calm he sounds. “I’ll call her.”

“ _Where do I bring him?”_ Winchester sounds relieved, and Foggy thinks that maybe, just maybe, Matt was right about the brothers’ innocence.

“I’m at his apartment now,” he says, and rattles off the location. They exchange a few more words, and then the line clicks off as Winchester hangs up.

“Jesus Christ,” says Foggy one more time as he lets his head fall back to rest against the couch.

 

* * *

 

Daredevil is heavier than he looks and five stories is a lot of stairs.

Especially backwards. With a dying blind guy in leather.

There’s a lot of panting and sweating and Dean almost tripping and killing them both. (It was rock-paper-scissors to figure out who was going down backwards. Needless to say, Dean lost.) But eventually they make it back out into the sunlight and to the car.

Now Daredevil (or Matt Murdock, take your pick) is strewn across the back seat, getting blood all over the upholstery. Sam is sitting in back trying to keep him from drowning in it, and Dean is driving as fast as he can without getting caught.

He doesn’t turn on the radio, even though he wants to, because it seems wrong to surround such grimness with heavy metal rock. Dean can feel the muscles around his neck bunching up with the tension, and he has to break the silence.

“So,” he begins, eyeing Sam in the rearview mirror. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is a blind guy.”

“Yup.”

“And our lawyer.”

“Yup.”

“And completely human.”

(Sam had tested him as soon as Dean had pressed the pedal to the floor.)

“Yup.”

“Well, damnit.”

 

* * *

 

_“Hey. Um…it’s Foggy.”_

Claire stiffens, frozen in place with the fridge still open and a carton of milk in hand. There’s something in his voice, and even if there weren’t, there’s only one reason Foggy would ever call her.

“How bad is it?”

“ _Uh, well, I don’t actually know.”_

She has to choke back a growl of frustration. This was supposed to be her night off. “What do you mean you ‘don’t know’?”

_“I mean, he’s not actually here. Here being his apartment. But he was on the news and then I called him and a…not a friend, but someone we sort of know picked up. And they’re bringing him back here. But they say there’s a lot of blood and something about ribs and lungs and—“_

Claire sighs loudly, the violent exhalation cutting the panicked lawyer off mid-sentence. “Foggy, I’ll be over there as fast I can.”

“ _Thank you! Thank you, Claire. I really…I mean, thank you so much. You have no idea—“_

“Foggy?”

“ _Yeah?”_

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

It takes her fifteen minutes to gather her stuff, grab a cab, and drive the eighteen blocks of heavy rush-hour traffic between her apartment and Matt’s. She climbs out of the car, distractedly paying her fare through the window, and pauses for only a second to stare at the unfamiliar sight of a shiny black ’67 Impala parked on the curb.

(Her _abuelo_ was obsessed with old cars, and every time he caught her playing with his fifty-plus models he’d derail her with facts about every car ever manufactured in rapid-fire Spanish. She’d learned to recognize the different models so when he asked her what any given car was in the hopes of going on another rant, she’d be able to waylay him and make an escape to where Abuela Rosa was always baking cookies.)

Claire swallows a surge of fear as she spots the droplets of blood on the pavement, making a crimson trail from the Impala’s back door to the entrance of Matt’s apartment building. Matt would have to be really injured before accepting the help of ‘not a friend, but someone we sort of know’.

She tightens her grip on her medical kit and sprints up the stairs, ignoring the elevator completely. A middle-aged woman laden with shopping bags raises an eyebrow at her, and a few little boys point and whisper loudly to each other. An older man glares at her and mutters something about young people always being in a rush.

None of it matters. Matt could be dying and, at the moment, she’s the only one who can save him.

Soon she stands before his apartment, pounding on the door with urgency and not waiting for anyone to answer before roughly twisting the knob to find that it is, in fact, unlocked. She opens it and storms in, slamming it behind her and hurrying past the entranceway to get to Matt’s living room.

Foggy meets her at the end of the partition, clearly having been on his way to let her in before she chose to admit herself. Claire takes one look at his pale and frightened face and feels her heart sink. This must be really, really bad for him to look that way.

There are two unfamiliar men in the room, both well-built and tall as all hell. The one with the long hair is perched on the edge of the coffee table, doing his best to clean Matt’s wounds, while the bow-legged one paces by the windows, light from the billboard playing across his face.

Claire busies across the room and all but shoves the long-haired one out of the way. “Claire,” she says as he opens his mouth. “I’m Claire. Now shut up and get me a damp towel.”

He looks surprised, but does as she says. “I’m Sam,” he calls over his shoulder as he makes for the kitchen sink. “That’s my brother, Dean.”

“Great,” she says drily before moving on. “Foggy, go outside.”

Foggy blinks at her. “What?”

“You’ll give yourself a heart attack watching this. Go outside.”

He shakes his adamantly. “No. No, I have to be here for Matt.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?”

Foggy pauses, and she knows that they are remembering the same thing. The first time they met, Matt was dying, bleeding from cuts that were so, so deep and barely breathing as his already dampened skin clammed up with sweat. Foggy had insisted by being by his side; until he’d run to the kitchen sink and vomited down the drain.

“I can handle it.”

Claire nods curtly; she doesn’t have time to argue with him, and besides, he’s a lawyer. She’d probably lose.

“Stop pacing,” she snaps at Dean as she pulls out her stethoscope, needing the gage the internal damage.

“Sorry?”

“Stop pacing. It’s distracting. Go sit over there and be quiet.”

Foggy kneels by her side silently, and Claire can feel him shaking. “Let me help.”

She eyes him for a moment, then nods again.

“Get my antiseptic out of the kit.”

This is going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

Matt blinks his eyes open to aching pain and a tight feeling in his chest. He listens intently to the rhythms of his own body, noting the grinding of broken ribs and the oozing whistle of air escaping a lung that, although punctured, is already clotting with blood to seal up the escape of precious oxygen.

That done, he expands his senses to the room around him. His nose is bombarded with the sharp smell of antiseptic and the rubber of bandages, paired with the soothing smell of lavender soap that means Claire is here.

Where is here? The familiar mold of the couch beneath him indicates that this is his apartment, and he is confused for a moment as to how he got here. Then he smells the metal of Foggy’s tapwater and hears the swish of long hair scraping the shoulders of a detergent-scented suit and knows that his friend is nearby.

But it’s not just him, and Claire, and Foggy. They are not alone. There are strangers, unfamiliar smells of gunpowder and beer and leather and blood, large and menacing and powerful with the taught pull of strong muscles as they move.

The strangers seem vaguely familiar, but Matt’s world is a haze of pain and pure instinct. He jerks upwards, stitches pulling taught through his skin like burning needles of raw pain. He ignores them, though, because there are strange, threatening men in his apartment with Foggy and Claire and they need his protection.

“Whoa!” says a voice, low and unfamiliar as hands reach out to grasp his shoulders and hold him down. “Whoa, easy there!”

The words don’t soothe him; if anything, they serve only to arouse his panic further. He lashes out with bruised fists, splits knuckles at first colliding with someone’s face but then meeting only air as his potential assailant dodges his instinctual attack.

“Matt!”

He freezes, pain catching up with him as the adrenaline fades. The voice is Foggy’s, and it is Foggy’s presence that is now by his side, reaching timid fingers out to grip his arm. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. They’re friends.”

“Who—“ Matt coughs, throat so dry that it feels like sandpaper. “Water.” In seconds Claire is pressing a glass into his hand, urging him gently to drink slowly. He does as he’s told, knowing from experience that any disobedience where Claire is concerned is a terrible idea. The liquid is heaven as it slides down, though, and it takes discipline to not gulp it down all at once.

“What happened?” he asks as Claire presses some pills into his hand and waits for him to swallow them before taking the glass away and forcing him to lie back. “How—“

“You were in a fight,” comes the reply. Not from Claire or Foggy, not even from the first stranger. It is the other stranger, and Matt realizes with sudden clarity that the speaker is Dean Winchester. With this realization comes others, and a flood of memories send him momentarily reeling.

“They were…” he begins, brow creasing. “They were…what were they?” He knows what the Winchesters told him on the rooftop moments before he lost consciousness, but he needs to hear it again, needs to make sure that it wasn’t just a fluke of pain-filled, adrenaline-charged imagination.

There is a pause wherein the brothers exchange a glance. “Uh,” begins Sam uncertainly as his eyes travel to Foggy and Claire. “Can we talk about this privately?”

“Like hell,” snaps Foggy. “My best friend just got beaten with an inch of his life. I have the right to know how it happened.” Sam opens his mouth to retort, but Foggy stops him. “And don’t even try to argue. I am a lawyer and I can out-argue anyone.”

Matt smiles slightly. “Everyone but me.”

“Hey, now, Murdock, that is an unfair statement. I can totally out-argue you.”

“Yeah, if that were true, we’d still be at _Landman and Zach’s_.”

Foggy’s muscles twist in an unusual way, and Matt assumes his friend has formed his face into a rude expression. To confirm this, Foggy says, “I’m making a face at you.”

“Means you can’t think of a comeback,” Matt grunts as he gingerly raises himself upwards so that his shoulders are resting against the pillow that has been propped against the arm of the couch. He turns his sightless gaze towards the Winchesters and redirects the conversation. “They’re staying.”

“Even—“ Sam begins, glancing at Claire. She cuts him off with what must be a stern glare, because he stops in his tracks and nods. “Okay.” He pauses. “Well, this is going to be hard to hear. The…the things you fought were…well, they weren’t exactly human.”

Claire straightens, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What do you mean, ‘not human’?” she asks incredulously.

“They were demons,” says Dean bluntly.

Matt sighs and closes his eyes, his memories of earlier confirmed. The sulfur, the inhuman strength, the way they wouldn’t stay down…and after aliens raining from the sky, who is he, a Catholic, to deny the proof placed, metaphorically of course, right before his eyes?

His friends have the opposite reaction. “What?” gasps Foggy in shock whilst Claire exclaims, “Did you say _demons_?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yep,” he says, popping the end of the word. “Demons. From Hell. Black-eyed, satanic sons of bitches.”

“Dean,” reprimands Sam disapprovingly. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but there are things out there in the dark, monsters who—“

“Stop,” says Foggy, sounding a bit faint. “I don’t think I really want to know.”

Sam nods. “Demons are what attacked Matt. There was some sort of turf war between them and…” he pauses, seeming to consider Foggy’s wish to remain ignorant. “Something else. But that ‘something else’ left and I guess the demons caught your friend eavesdropping, and, well, I think you can figure out what happened next.”

“Jesus,” breathes Claire.

A thought occurs to Matt, and he opens his eyes again. “Your charges. The kidnappings, the torture, the murder. That wasn’t you, was it.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t,” he says, and Sam continues for him.

“Some of it was demons, some of it was…other things. But we didn’t kill anyone.”

“Although the breaking and entering and the arson are on us,” adds Dean helpfully, ignoring Sam’s protestation. Matt has to smile.

“That could count as a confession, but I really think I’m not in a position to prosecute anyone for protecting people outside of the law,” he says, and Foggy snorts.

“Claire,” says his friend matter-of-factly. “I never want to see another vigilante again. You?”

She grins. “Actually—“

“No. No, you did _not_ find another idiot already.”

Matt’s head snaps up in indignation. “Hey!” Then he rewinds what was said. “Wait, you’re replacing me?”

Claire puts her hands up in submission. “I’m not saying a word.”

“Claire…”

“Nope.”

They descend into companionable silence for a while. The painkillers finally start to take effect and Matt drifts happily into the familiar sounds around him: three girls playing hopscotch on the pavement outside, Mr. Martinelli cursing at the sports team on his ancient television set, Mrs. Tanner’s cat grooming itself with its raspy, scritch-scratching tongue. His world.

 

* * *

 

The sun shines on the pavement as early-morning commuters pass the group of unlikely companions. Matt stands on the stoop of his apartment building, clutching his cane and leaning against Foggy’s shoulder.

“So,” says Dean. “This is it.”

Matt nods, smiling slightly. “Stay out of trouble.”

Foggy snorts. “They’re wanted criminals slash monster hunters. They’re not staying out of trouble. Trust me, Matt, I know. They’re just like you.”

“We’ll do our best,” reassures Sam, resting his elbow atop the shiny black hood of the Impala parked on the curb. “Same to you.”

“Sure,” agrees Matt. “And thank you.”

“Eh, no problem,” scoffs Dean. “You were doing a pretty good job on your own.”

“Still.”

Sam nods. “You ever need supernatural help, give us a call, alright?”

“And if you’re ever in the area and need either a lawyer or a vigilante, call _Nelson and Murdock_.”

They shake hands, Matt with the barest twinge of pain as his sore muscles are forced to move so abruptly.

The Winchesters climb into the car and Matt waves at them through the window. Sam waves back, a tad uncertain about nonverbal gestures towards a blind man. Matt has to smile at that.

The engine revs once, the sound of metal rock blasting from the car’s speakers, and then they disappear into downtown traffic. The lawyers watch them go in silence, the hustle of New York City’s daytime life surrounding their small point of stillness.

“Well,” says Foggy. “We should probably get to work.”

“Yeah,” agrees Matt, and turns to go, but Foggy holds him back.

“Matt?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s leave the world-saving to the Avengers from now on, okay?”

Matt pauses, fingering his cane. “Okay,” he finally says. “I think this city is big enough for Daredevil.”

“Good.”

“But,” he continues, and Foggy turns towards him, eyebrow raised. “Maybe us lawyers can help change the bigger picture.”

Foggy laughs drily and tugs him towards the side of the road, raising his arm to hail a taxi. “Sure,” he says. “ _Nelson and Murdock_ , saving the world.”

 

 _FIN_  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? Hate it? Gimme a review and tell me what you thought.
> 
> Now, let's discuss the next installment in this series. They'll all be crossovers, and I have some ideas, but i can't decide which to go with and I thought I'd let you guys vote. So here are the options:
> 
> Daredevil meets CW's The Flash/Arrow/Both/One or the other (which, well, guys, should there be dimension travel or should we just imagine that the Arrowverse is in the same universe as MCU?)  
> Daredevil meets Sherlock (because, come on, Sherlock's analytical skills meeting Matt's supersenses? It'd be awesome.)  
> Daredevil meets Spiderman (which is still in the MCU, and technically I've already written one of these, but I just really love Spidey and there will be cuddles and fluffiness and advice will be given.)  
> Daredevil meets....any other ideas? Suggest them! If I see an idea that I absolutely love, it may just beat out all prior votes and things will happen and stories will be written.
> 
> Comment! Please! Thank you! Have a nice day! Thanks for reading!


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